


and you'd never hurt him

by ameneurosis



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Body Worship, Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Wade's POV, just some soft gentle chillness, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameneurosis/pseuds/ameneurosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a drabbly thing inspired by <a href="http://estherliv.tumblr.com/post/146499457659/and-youd-never-hurt-her-by-esther-liv">'and you'd never hurt her' by estherliv on tumblr</a></p><p>"Pale light streams through their opened curtains from the ebbing moon and the city lights surrounding them, draping itself gently over their uncovered skin, brightening the room just enough to give hints of silhouettes. It’s three in the morning, and they should be sleeping — Peter’s yawning every other minute and Wade’s muscles are tiredly lax, but they’re reveling in the calm of it all, savoring the fact that, for the moment, they have nowhere to be but the present."</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you'd never hurt him

**Author's Note:**

> i woke up at an ungodly hour this morning, got on my computer and then wrote this in one sitting ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i've never written this ship before, but there's not /that/ much characterization so i don't think it's TOO ooc? pls lemme know what u think. (there r probs tons of errors i missed -- if u see em can u point them out to me so i can fix them?? thank u!)

Pale light streams through their opened curtains from the ebbing moon and the city lights surrounding them, draping itself gently over their uncovered skin, brightening the room just enough to give hints of silhouettes. It’s three in the morning, and they should be sleeping — Peter’s yawning every other minute and Wade’s muscles are tiredly lax, but they’re reveling in the calm of it all, savoring the fact that, for the moment, they have nowhere to be but the present.

Peter’s curled into Wade’s side, a hand lightly clasped around one of his, the other trailing slowly up his chest, over his arms, touching every inch he can without dislodging himself from the comfortable position, lips following in exploration, soft kisses burning themselves into his already marred complexion, painlessly branding him, marking him as _his_ , symbols of utmost love painting over those brought by unimaginable pain.

There’s no pressure anywhere to be found, no hardness in the caresses, Wade’s sharp edges sanded down until they’re soft and smooth, dulcet words spoken slightly below a whisper gliding over them, into him. The constant noise in his head has even quieted, melting into static, the voices’ normally acidic persecutions turned down to murmurs, not displeased with the situation. It always catches him off guard, how these violent and bloody beings inside of him can morph into affection-hungry puppies whenever he’s in Peter’s presence. He says as much, and it earns him a fond chuckle, the younger bringing their joined hands up to his lips, giving them the same treatment he had the rest of him.

For someone who’s at least mildly unsure whether or not the world around him is real on a good day, feeling this grounded is an astonishing feat. The duvet is entwined around their legs like roots, embedding them into their bed, and when Wade moves his free hand into Peter’s hair and he nuzzles into the touch, the smallest of smiles on his face, he has no doubts, knows that he’s not dreaming or hallucinating. His subconscious could never be capable of conjuring up the warmth seeping through them, the subtle glow in Peter’s eyes when he looks up at him sleepily, the adoration that’s radiating off of the boy in waves.

His hypervigilant heartbeat that’s always threatening to burst through his chest has slowed, the rhythm harmonizing with the leisurely path Peter’s fingertips are mapping out across his chest, down his abdomen and up again, never producing the same pattern. Often Wade’s full of self-loathing and rage when his heart refuses to stay still for more than a few hours, but, here, being alive doesn’t feel like such a bad thing, so long as Peter’s heart beats with him.


End file.
